To Meld and Mend the Soul
by Shellysbees
Summary: John Hamish has just returned from Afghanistan when he meets Clara and the Doctor, but the dreams that begin to haunt him have nothing to do with his PTSD. Who is Sherlock Holmes? And will the Doctor be able to set things right before John loses his sanity?


John lunged from his bed in a panic, a cold sheen of sweat all over his body as he panted slightly, trying to come to grips with his reality.

You're in London. It was just a dream. It's over

It was something he had to remind himself quite often in the dark of night when he woke from painful nightmares, the horrors of the battle field playing vividly against his mind's eye. He'd been seeing a therapist since his return, but she'd done little good for him. His limp was just as bad as ever and writing about his pathetic excuse for a life was not helping him heal in the least.

When his breathing had returned to normal he attempted to lie back down and go to sleep, but it was useless. Closing his eyes would mean falling back into the nightmare. Instead he focused on diligently commiting the lines on the ceiling to memory until the beginnings of daylight began creeping into the one bedroom he had rented.

After another useless hour long session with his therapist, John found himself walking through London, his anxious thoughts eating away at him as he tried to figure out how he would manage to stay in the city. His mind flitted back to the bowing in his top desk drawer too many times for his liking. The only thing that had kept him from fully considering that option thus far had been the fact that he didn't want to become another horrible statistic; A(a) damaged soldier that couldn't handle civilian life. It's what he was of course, he knew that, but no one else needed to know that little secret.

He was just about to head back to his lifeless flat when he heard someone call his name.

"John? John Hamish?!"

John turned to see the familiar face beaming at him, but couldn't quite place the name. The heavy set man seemed to see his uncertainty, answering his wordless question quickly, "Stamford, Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together."

His college years came flooding back, like a painful blow to the chest. He tried not to think about how carefree he had been before the Army, before the war. Hiding the pain John nodded, limping back towards the other man.

"Yes, sorry, yes, Mike, hello."

Mike laughed heartily, gesturing towards the gut rolling over his belt line, "Yeah, I know, I got fat." He said it as if it was a completely valid reason for John not to recognize him.

"No, no." John stammered awkwardly, shaking his head. Thankfully Mike took pity on him, pushing the conversation onward.

"I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?"

John's lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes flickered to the ground, avoiding Stamford's gaze. "I got shot," he spat out the words bitterly, but quickly moved on after seeing the shocked look flash across his old friend's features. "Are you still at Barts, then?"

Stamford quickly recovered, stumbling over his words for just a moment, "Teaching now, yeah. Bright young things like we used to be." He paused for a moment, a nostalgic smile breaking through, "God, I hate them."

The comment pulled a humorless chuckle from John. The other man pushed on, ostensibly determined on opening up conversation. "What about you? Just staying in town till you get yourself sorted?"

"I can't afford London on an Army pension." John replied simply as he followed the other man to sit on a bench overlooking the park.

"You couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know." Stamford quipped, a knowing smile on his lips, like he'd said something particularly witty. John was quick to cut him down.

"Yeah. Well, I'm not the John Watson..." The bitter words failed him and the sentence hung in the air unfinished.

Startled, Stamford muttered an apology, "Sorry, I didn't mean.."

"It's fine." John breathed, visibly relaxing.

They sat there in companionable silence for a few minutes, John watched a happy family of four off in the distance with a mixture of disgust and need. It was a picture he had resigned himself to never be a part of.

"You know we might have opening down at the hospital, if you're interested." Mikes voice broke through Johns barriers and he hummed noncommittally. He wasn't sure if he wanted a job here in London, getting a job here meant staying. Mike patiently waited a few more moments before standing from the park bench shrugging his shoulders as he spoke, "It's up to you, I'll be working till six tomorrow, stop by before then and..." He paused, gnawing at the inside of his lips. "Just try and stop by John." And with that he started back down the sidewalk, leaving John clutching his aluminum cane on a park bench.

The next day John found himself staring up at his almermata. He wasn't sure why he'd ended up taking a cabbie to Bart's, but he had, and now he was standing outside the building fighting an internal battle. He really had no reason to stay in London. John loved the city of course, but he had no friends here, none that he wanted to remember anyways, and absolutely no family. All he wanted was to escape, find something that could take the pain of everything he'd seen away.

Letting out a resigned sigh John turned away, regretting the choice to leave his bedsit more and more by the moment. He was walking back out towards the main road when he heard a muffled shout of a woman coming from the mouth of an alley. He halted, leaning on his cane heavily as he tried to decipher where the sound was coming from when he heard a louder scream, definitely coming from depths of the alley.

Cane falling to the wayside, John barreled down into the darkness. It was eerily dark, and if he looked back to the street he would see that the rest of the world was still glowing with the setting sun.

John heard the scream again, echoing against the walls of the dark alley, "DOCTOR!"

Some part of him knew she wasn't calling out to him, but he followed the call, running through a door to his right into an abandoned garage. He could barely see anything save for a door towards the back of the gaping room. The space all around the door was glowing much brighter than was entirely normal.

Pulling his bowing from the back of his belt swiftly, for once happy for his ridiculous fears, he ran towards the door. He crept the last few steps till he was flush with the wall beside the door. He could hear voices behind it, one belonging to the girl, the other high pitched and gravely, almost inhuman.

"The doctor will find you," she said sternly, no hint of fear in her voice. "You just wait, you'll be sorry."

The alien like voice that responded sounded like utter nonsense to the soldier, but the girl seemed to understand it for she responded quickly.

"What did you do to him!?" Her tone had dropped to a threatening growl and the foreign voice responded with something that could only have been a taunt. The girl screamed unintelligibly, and a cold cruel laugh echoed through the abandon garage.

It was torturing her.

Without a second thought John burst through the door, kicking it out and holding his gun aloft. The moment he caught sight of the young brunette his heart stopped. A faceless monster had her tied down to a table, a thin scalpel held between it long grey spidery digits.

"CLARA!" The name came to him without thought and he pulled the trigger, hitting the creature where he could only assume his brain was. It let out a blood curdling screech before crumpling to the floor.

Adrenaline pumping through his veins John rushed forward, undoing the bonds holding the girl to the table.

"Are you okay?" His voice was shaking, and when he looked back up at the girl he backed away quickly. Her eyes were blown wide, fear and anguish passed over her features.

"Doctor?"

She spoke tentatively, shaking her head softly.

Johns brow furrowed, why was she calling him doctor, had they met before? His head suddenly felt heavy, a dark shadow creeping into his vision. Regretting his less than healthy habits as of late, having not ingested anything more than coffee and the occasional apple or toast since his return to London, John succumbed to the darkness, a concerned face looming over his own as he fell.

...

...

"SHERLOCK!"


End file.
